Crash Course
by mazuzu
Summary: A random encounter on a transcontinental flight changes Rob's life forever. Will his sudden celebrity, and the global "Robsession" that have taken over his life get in the way of the relationship he doesn't even know he has been searching for?
1. Chapter 1

_**Prelude**_

_The plane was ready to load. Pacific Margin Air stewardess invited transfer passengers to start boarding the upper class. She looked at me, instant recognition lighting up her face; how very LA -- another fan sighting another movie celebrity. I could almost hear a familiar script playing in her head. "This one … isn't he that latest mega movie star, that British hunk? What was his name…Roderick? No -- Robert!!! Looks like a great piece of boy candy…Can I ask Him…? Would He ever…?" _

_Her blatant lust made me sick. She was old enough to be my grandmother. These days I was stuck in a nightmare: "Oedipus Rex" incestuous hero and Garcia Marquez' "One Hundred Years of Solitude" pimping grandmother have ganged up on me. I became their prime stud forced to pair up with estrogen-crazed, shrieking females, lined up for miles in endless queues, each of them with a "Killing Me Softly" ticket for a free ride on me. Or was my life a Fellini's "City of Women" nightmare fantasy gone real?? _

_I took back from her my boarding card stub and almost run down the gate to get away. Hopefully onboard I would find some privacy; majority of my adoring young fans were going right down thru the business section to their cheap coach seats. I turned left back to my upper class spot and landed. _

_Aaah! Safe at last…_

_2A next to me was the only seat still open; all others already taken by the usual elite travelers. _

_A male attendant served me some beer. Good. I was grateful for anything to numb me down for the remaining flight. Hopefully 2A will remain empty, and I can chill out alone for the next 5 hours to JFK._

_The nearly closed plane doors were being open again. One more passenger was rushing to make it. _

_Please make it business or coach…_

_No such luck. She turned left walking down the isle towards the only seat available: 2A. Window._


	2. Pardon Me

***

"Pardon me, may I get in?"

Her voice is breathless and soft, slightly accented. I look up; she stands next to my bag on the floor, waiting. Long blond hair loosely braided and tossed over one shoulder, with strands slipping out the soft knot at the end. Nice body. Long legs. Strong arms and hands. Henna patterns on long and narrow palms. Casual clothes draping fashionably off her shoulders and hips – loose silk pants and a chemise shirt snagging from her hard nipples. What would they be like to touch?

I move my bag to let her in. A sweet scent – fruit, incense and linseed oil (?) follows her. Taste-me smell.

She sits down next to me. Her bag filled with books lands loudly on the floor. She pushes it under the seat with her narrow foot. It barely fits. She doesn't seem to care about any potential breakage, just shoves harder then pulls her leg up on the seat and dangles the other knee over her propped-up ankle. She rests back, closes her eyes, and loudly exhales. I only hear it, not wanting to look at her and encourage any conversation. Though I don't need to bother avoiding eye contact with her. Her only passing glance at me shows no recognition in her eyes; barely a fleeting interest, then blank indifference. As if she is already preoccupied with something else.

As if she is totally oblivious to my pale love-struck face plastered all over every billboard in every town, everywhere. Glad I grew a beard. At least my infamous jaw line doesn't give me away every time…

We are getting ready to take off. Neither one of us pays attention to the usual safety spiel; looks like she is another frequent traveler. I pull out my music and plug in. So does she.

She relaxes her arm on our armrest, next to my glass of beer. Her fingers are long and slender, but strong looking. She has well defined upper arms and overall body tone of a swimmer. The henna pattern lines on her hand traveling up her arm delicately accent her skin. This is sexy; I can see how the Indian brides and their lovers find it a must to turn on. Would love to draw on her breasts and hips, a crawling trail of slow simmering sin going down her body…

WHOA?!? Where did THIS come from??? This girl is not someone I could be even interested in and I definitely don't need this now.

***

Take off. From the corner of my eye I see her grasping the armrest harder than would seem necessary judging by her until-now confident presence. She does not look like one afraid of flying, but she seems to be, just like me. We got a match. So what.

The steward comes asking if we want anything else to drink. The girl turns towards him (and me) to answer the question. Now I see that she is probably between 26 and 28; older than my first impression of her being just barely legal to drink, and than my own 23 years. She has a strong, clear presence and something less tangible but as intense: a personal mystique that makes her stand apart from girls my age, and all other women that I met before. While LOOKING like a young girl she FEELS like an experienced woman, very comfortable in her sexy, I-Dare-You skin.

Her eyes ... while she orders her drink, I briefly look up to see them better. They surprise me: light and clear but unusually intense blue, with a very dark rim on the edge of her iris. They are huge, piercing, mysterious and wise all at once, and … unlike anything I have ever seen. And they look at me, through and past me completely indifferent. As if I was just another average clown. Dress-up Chico Robecito. Make-believe Hero. Make-believe Villain. Make-believe Movie Star that without costume, make-up and lighting gets lost in the crowd of very average-looking or even homely losers.

Which I am. Which the world foolishly sees as some kind of a smashing Hunk'O'Love, God's gift to women.

I am convinced of that.

Whatever. I move on past her cold shoulder and go back to my music. This is a good time to try to finish the song I started a month ago, on my last trip to LA. Maybe I can finally catch the ending that eluded me since then.

I reach into my bag under the seat to get my keyboard, headphones, and laptop. They are hooked up all ready to go; all I do is plug back in where I stopped.

Can't help but notice that she is also getting busy. From her bag she pulls out couple of old leather diaries. She opens the top, thicker one revealing interior of a small wooden art box with a large block of clay, pieces of thin cardboard, several well-used wood tools and beginning of a small sculpture. Looks really cool, but I don't want her to see like I am paying any attention, so I try to watch her unnoticed. Fortunately I don't even have to try hiding my interest. She is not looking at me at all, instead diving into her work, instantly oblivious to anything else around her. Maybe not everything. She is also listening to something on her headphones and slightly moving her body in a languid rhythm.

I feel her sway; she sits too far to physically touch me, yet close enough to feel our seat, and the air between us move as if she was gently brushing her body against me. Her left breast swings free under the silk sheet of her blouse. Her nipple once in a while traces random ghost lines on the smooth surface. No bra. I think of starting to get hard. And try not to.

She would not notice anyway; lost in her motion, eyes only half open, looking at nothing around here. Her hands are moving, kneading, shaping something. It is a neck and a head. A face: eyes, nose, lips open in a scream, now the head gets bent to the side – all seem to effortlessly emerge from under her fingers. I have never seen anything like this; she is finding her shapes in clay with her eyes closed. She is humming, her body gently rocking to the music in her headphones. I hear a faint buzz of a Bossanova, apparently a soundtrack she chose for her creative trance…

Caressing, touching, stroking hard clay into a new existence. Watching her I am definitely not able to concentrate on my music. This time I openly look at her hands, marveling at the magic flowing from her fingers. A miniature head – maybe 5 or 6 inches tall is coming to life. This was only about 15 minutes of work. How can anyone even do that?

She pauses. Quickly I look back down at my laptop, guilty and eager to avoid meeting her gaze and getting caught in spying on her creative flow. I have been feeling her swaying body with my own and suddenly want to be the clay under Her fingers. I don't want Her to know this. She is a stranger, and I don't need this complication in my already out-of-control life.

As if woken up from a trance She notices me, startled. Did she forget I am here? She runs her fingers through her hair, stretches her arms and rounds her back like a cat.

"Pardon me, may I step out?" Her voice. I am surprised realizing that I really wanted to hear it. We are now looking at each other, and there is a new sense of searching in her eyes. Aha! Now she thinks she has seen me somewhere. Maybe she is not totally oblivious.

But no, she looks away, indifferent as before. No further questions beyond the first one: "May I step out?

There is enough room for her to walk past without disturbing me, but my bag is again in her way. I drag it under my seat to let her through. I can't help myself and smile at her. This time she smiles back. Nice. Her lips are full and pink. No lipstick. Inviting. Look very soft. Or hard depending on what she wants to do with them. I look away, down at my keyboard. She follows my gaze as she passes through.

"Musician, huh?" Did she think that? -- I wonder.


	3. Coincidences

***

She does not come back for a very long while. I look at her armrest. Her sculpture box is resting on it, now closed, with a small, leather-suede bound book underneath it. The book looks strangely familiar. No title on the spine, but it looks exactly like the small leather volume I have in my bag. Could it be the same one?

I have to find out, and so I reach for her property, already knowing that this is my turning point into a head-on collision into something I never saw coming.

I slowly open the front cover.

A handwritten title block:

_Crash Course _by Hariku Harakiri.

_2009 © All Rights Reserved. Author's Draft. Copy 1 of 5._

_Not For Sale. Personal Property of the Author. For Authorized Review Only._

_If found, Please Return Immediately to the Author for a Large Award. No Questions Asked._

What is a statistical possibility of SUCH coincidence?

Her book is exactly like the one resting in my bag, except mine is copy 3 of 5. She got the first one. I got the 3rd. I am reading it for my next script option. The author gave it to his best friend who happens to be my agent. Halfway into it, so far I both love and hate the story.

How did she get it? Why? What for? Who gave it to her? There are only 5 of these in existence. What is the chance of both of us having one, here, now? What does it mean?

Can I still stop whatever comes next?

No. I don't want to stop. I have to know more. When I open her Cr_ash Course _in the middle, I see that her copy is very different than mine. She must have filled it herself with thin vellum sheets taped randomly to the manuscript pages, with sketches, both loose and tight pencil and ink drawings on pieces of translucent flimsy. The studies look like illustrations of the story locations in the book, abstract but easy to understand. Study after study captures bold and subtle differences between her different ideas. Hariku's text peeks through the translucent sheets. Some of her line drawings run over the vellum edges onto the author's handwritten copy, making it all together a very personal work of art; a true joining of their minds. Now with a new secret life of its own in my uninvited hands.

Past the middle of her book, the see-through page inserts are left blank. She must still be working through the story. I open it near the end section, just to see if I missed something there. A few solid sheets fold out like a harmonica from the center. These are different from the rest; a series of miniature studies of a man and a woman making love. Black on white. His hands on her hips; then cupping her breasts, and grasping her thigh. His face only drawn up to his lips, the rest fading off.

In these beautifully delicate drawings with light washes of color, the gentleness of her simple, flowing lines stands in stark contrast to the captured passion and heat of the couplings. Turning the page, I see another one, a more complete study of a woman's face in the moment of her Coming – flushed cheeks, half-closed unseeing eyes, her torso taut and suspended up above him, in the air, as if flying. Like a spring bow ready to release, She is hovering on Her edge. A stunning – and stunned butterfly in Her final ecstasy, dying on a pin pierced straight and deep through her core. I can almost feel Her vibrate there in front of me, Her breathless scream frozen on Her lips. It is She, the girl assigned to the seat next to mine. A self-portrait, true to the original. In a flash I see her suspended over myself, with the same flood of blond hair covering my chest, her heat drowning out my hunger.

Then I stop. I trespassed where I had not been invited. Not allowed, completely forbidden. I have stalked her in her private diary. I close the book and put it back under her box. My hands are shaking. Her images burn in my head driving an electric shock of desire though me and there is nothing I can do about it.

***

Not a moment too early. She is coming down the isle back to her seat. I know it without seeing her, just feeling her moving through the air behind me. With my eyes closed I pretend to be asleep. While my heart is pounding right through my chest. I offer thanks to Pacific Margin Air for my thick blanket; without it I would feel like a huge fool with my straining jeans exposed.

She steps lightly around me and sits down. This time she pulls her cover on and rolls to face away from me. Slowly I exhale and open my eyes to see my reading light catch the graceful curve of her neck. She sticks her now bare foot out to rest it on her footrest extension below, exposing more of the henna filigree on her toes and ankle snaking way up her calf. It is sooo sexy. Why didn't I ever meet anyone with these before?

She sleeps for what seems like hours. I can't. Chords keep rolling in my head with her throaty voice calling for me. I see her face from the drawing, facing me in her ultimate rapture. I want to touch her now, but she is in a different dimension; so within my reach and yet completely untouchable. Breaking now through her personal air bubble even for a most tender caress would be equal to rape. I already know her completely exposed; yet she knows nothing of my growing lust, nor cares for my existence. We are but two sets of atoms, one supercharged with desire for the oblivious other, traveling through a cloudy atomic universe, pushed onward by our jet's turbocharged dancing molecules engines. How surreal.

Sleeping, she rolls over to face me. I am now unplugged from my music, resting, just looking at her peaceful face. Her eyes are closed; long hair flows down her cheek and over fine collarbone. Lips are slightly pouted and childlike. Her face opens while she sleeps, small smiles passing through it as if she was dreaming something funny. She is beautiful.

Her hand comes close to mine on the armrest. I can feel the warmth of her slender pinky. Would love to touch it, but don't dare. She does it instead. Sleeping, she moves her hand until her fingers rest on my forearm. She traces small circles on my skin. I feel all I didn't want to feel – tenderness, fear, heat, hunger. She whispers a name. Daniel. Then she abruptly jerks her hand away and sobs. THAT was unexpected, like a boiling ice bucket down my chest. Did not see it coming, either.

She moves, this time to turn away. But her book is still next to me, tucked under her sculpture box. I am drawn to it against my will, at least the rational, self-preserving part of it. I touch it and gently try to ease it out from beneath the box. I HAVE to see Her face again, open and raw. Her _Crash Course _opens on a new page I hadn't seen before: a woman's body, Her own judging by the henna-like patterns all over it – is being ripped apart by ravens pulling on black ropes. A black hand in the centre shoves apart chunks of her like pieces of an exploding pie. And a dark silhouette of man next to her, just looking away. Casually. Without caring. Maybe that can explain her sob.

I put the book back holding my breath, now completely terrified she will notice in my invasion. Feeling dirty to have spied on her again, entered where I should not have gone. It was wrong. But I had to do it.

I turn to face other way and switch my light off. My heart is pounding. I have to calm down and get some rest; this will be a tough week for me. Starting the next shoot in just 10 days, then in less than 3 months, our second sequel. Need time off to chill out and recharge before diving into it all again.

At last I drift off to a dreamless half-sleep.


	4. Introductions

***

We fly peacefully for some time, until a big jerk almost shakes me out of my reclined seat. She is also jarred awake, disoriented, her braid now almost undone. She lets out a muffled cry then immediately goes quiet. She took hold of herself very quickly; impressive self-control for being so abruptly woken up.

She turns her light on and rubs her face awake, twisting her tangled hair in place. Looks over at me pretending to sleep, then bends down and brings a laptop from her bag under the seat. She must have gotten enough rest to get back to her work.

I watch through my almost closed eyelids as she sets up her sculpture box, this time next to her laptop. She pulls a little camera, then rotates the model and takes several shots. Then she grabs and crashes the sculpted head into a formless lump. OH Maaan! WHY?? This little face was incredible! Why did she have to destroy it?

I must have made some sudden move to openly look at or try to stop her because she meets my gaze surprised. Did I reach out for the figure being crushed? I guess I must have, and now I feel like a fool. Even worse, her expression clearly says I am a prying loser.

I did not want her to see me watching her. That sucks. She keeps looking at me impatiently, her annoyed face challenging me to explain myself.

I clear my throat. "Sorry, none of my business, but why did you destroy it? This little head was pretty cool. I couldn't have made one even close to it in a million years."

"Was it? Not really. It did not work for what I wanted." She sounds curt. Distant. I trespassed into her territory. Now that I am there, I have no choice but to keep going.

"What did you want?" I ask. "Why was this one not good enough for you?"

" Sorry?" she sounds indignant. "Excuse, me, but that IS none of your business." She shuts me out, but I keep staring at her until she relents. Hesitantly she offers a little more: " I am working on a stage set for a play, well – so far really an early story draft. The Author's script is really twisted, not so directly real and literal as this head was. Does this answer your question? This is not supposed to be pretty and perfect, but very imperfect, tweaked, disturbing, and fractured like his writing. The writer is incredibly lyrical, and unbelievably twisted at the same time."

"You mean he is like Hariku Harakiri, that Japanese writer?" I ask aware I am hard pressing my luck.

She looks at me with a growing suspicion. "Yes, he is LIKE Hariku Harakiri." She says slowly, deliberately. "Very much like him. How do you know about Hariku, anyway? He is not so well known here."

"It happens that I am reading his next book right now. His script." I answer, hoping this will clear the air.

"Oh." That is all she says. Then moves her box and her Hariku's intimate notebook from our shared armrest to the other side, well out my reach. My heart is racing. I am sure she knows.

I don't want her growing distrust to cut off last of her attention. Quickly I pull my copy of Hariku's book from my bag. "See – here is a copy of Hariku's latest work I just got from my agent. It is not published yet, but we are looking at some way to make it into a script."

"Well." She seems to have relaxed a bit back in her chair. "What a coincidence." Still her box and book remain tucked under her other arm, as far as possible from me.

"So" I ask to keep her engaged with me, "What was this sculpture for? And what do you do?"

"I am a visual storyteller." She does not go into details. Her suspicion is still there.

"And….? That's it?" I hope for more but she cuts me of, abruptly.

"That's as much as I am willing to share."

"Oh". This is my turn to be stomped, not knowing where to go from here. She is definitely not willing to spill her guts, or ask me for my story. She apparently does not think much of me. Surprisingly it feels refreshing. Hasn't happened to me for a while. I like her far beyond her looks. A lot more than I am ready to admit.

"Pardon me for asking", I keep pressing on despite her dead end conversation strategy. "But what is your name?"

She hesitates, clearly resisting being pulled into a conversation. After a long pause she gives in: "You can call me … Sam." The way she says it I am not sure if this is her real name, but its clear that's all I will get out of her at the moment, so I go along with it. To keep her talking, I introduce myself:

"Robert. My friends call me Rob."

"Oh." She says as her expression changes. At first I can't quite read what's behind it: looks like something strikes her as very funny. She makes it clearer when she speaks next:

"Robert? Your face does look familiar… Didn't you recently play that love struck-killer that EVERY teenager and her hormonal mom wants to be smothered by for eternity?"

"Yes. That's me."

Ouch! Judging by her clearly sarcastic tone, she is obviously not swept off her feet, but instead genuinely amused at my expense. Hallelujah! Not one of my crazy fans. THAT is refreshing. I just met someone real and averse to my celeb status hoopla…this feels much more familiar to the pre-fame days. Maybe there is a chance…?

She interrupts my thoughts, speaking in a pleasantly polite but neutral tone. "Sorry Rob … I didn't mean to be a smartass, you just surprised me with your book. I know that it's very rare." Finally smiling she reaches out to shake my hand: "Nice to meet you. I've seen some of your work and liked it. The _"Winterhouse"_ was intelligent and intense, and then that "_Haunted Manor" _films: eerie and depressing but good. I didn't see your killer romance blockbuster, but I heard that you took the banal out of it and made it deeply disturbing. I must admit you sound more interesting that an average self-absorbed, teen movie star. Good for you. "

"Thanks. You are also very different from anyone I have ever met." I want to say more, but I am stomped, not knowing where to go from here. Our conversation dries up. She looks away from me, forgetting my presence yet again. Her fingers move back onto the clay, absentmindedly starting to mold another face looking more and more familiar as it takes shape. I see a jaw, crooked flat nose, and thick eyebrows grow over deep-set eyes. And all of my other sharp chiseled facial planes so over-exposed on the worldwide billboards.

I guess however unwilling, she has seen all over the place enough of me to stick in her visual memory. And so now she is making a mini-me. I look more carefully at her ignoring me. Her face is partially hidden behind her now loose hair; but I notice that she is smiling or rather - smirking to herself. Her total indifference is a ruse; she is sculpting me as her private joke. I reach out and touch her hand again.

She looks up at me with an impish smile and holds up her sculpture. "Now does this make it up for destroying the other head?" She asks lightly. "Looks like it really upset you, and I don't know of any good reason for me to deliberately bring you down. If I give this to you now, will you promise to not get attached to my other studies for the rest of our flight and let me break them as I wish?"

She is making fun of me, but it is not mean spirited … she is playing with me. Better than ignoring me all together. It is also her way of saying, "Stay out of my business." With my most dazzling smile I reach out to hold her hand open and take my clay head from her. Her skin is very warm. I have to let her go but at least the clay in my hand holds her heat for a while longer.

"Yes, its a deal. Crush whatever else you want, as long as this one stays untouched." I smile at her again, truly jazzed to get my mini-me bust from her. My first personal trophy. Cool.

"Well, my warmest thanks for your understanding. Now can I get back to my work?" She smiles politely, then her face loses interest and she turns away. She is done with me. Here comes that ice-cold bucket again.


	5. Face to Face

***

Her hands are moving fast again, shaping the clay. A cardboard blade is cutting through it in fragments; the figure explodes in her fingers. She positions it on her model base, with the ravens and the wall supports holding the body pieces apart. I suddenly realize that it looks like the last image in her diary, except the face – her face in her sketch is not there, just the torn body pieces. No indifferent man on the side, either, just a shattered suffering. Was her artwork a record of her own personal pain, or a part Hariku's book that she needed and improvised using herself as an easy model? I have to finish _Crash Course_ script to find out.

I notice that she has been sitting still. Looking away, lost in thought; the exploded figure on the maquette box is resting in her lap. For a long time, She sits motionless staring out her window, and then as if waking up from a trance, she picks up her figure again. Her hands turn it around and around. Small touches knead an edge or a corner. Bending it into a more dramatic angle. Stretching it longer, tauter, some parts more tortured, some - more graceful. Minute changes to the individual lines alter the feel and mood of the piece; she plays it like a musical instrument sliding random minor notes into an evolving score…

She has completely forgotten me while I keep looking at her, mesmerized. In my head, my song ending is falling in place. My fingers, until now resting quietly on the electronic keyboard are now moving on their own, notes stringing themselves into new chords jamming with each other. My music is finally breaking through to meet her exploded soul art. The lyrics float up from my subconscious.

Suddenly I want to expose to her the only secret I ever managed to hide away from the world spotlights: the moment when raw music comes to me. Maybe I am trying to balance us out and make up for my huge indiscretion towards her. A pathetically small gesture on my part, but I hope enough a new, fair start for us.

I reach out and touch her arm, breaking her concentration. She is startled, but then slowly focuses on my face, brushing aside her visible resentment at my invasion into her art trance. "Do you mind listening to this for a moment?" I press on. "Looks like you have been dancing to something inside you for while. Your hands shaped the clay with you moving to your own beat. And while you were art dancing next to me, you helped me pull out these notes until now hopelessly jumbled in my brain. I would like you to hear this piece in return for my mini-me spare head. Could you please humor me and listen?"

She looks at me, at first surprised then smiling lightly as she slowly nods her head. I move in closer, so close that I can almost taste her sweet breath. My heart is racing. I try my best not to show it. With my left hand I brush her smooth hair aside, and with the other I remove my headphones and put the soft earphone buds gently into her ears. She is sitting very still while I am scared breathless that she will back away. I reach out and barely daring to touch her take hold of her face, letting it rest between my fingers.

She does not move, only her striking clear eyes follow mine. I briefly lower my left hand to adjust the playback control to start my song. She closes her eyes when the music comes on. I quietly exhale and hold her cheeks a little closer, feeling her warm breath and soft skin, and her silky hair tangled between my fingertips. Watching her lips I breathe out lightly, afraid to move and spook her away. She sits very still, listening. I dare myself to look up again. Her now open eyes lock on mine, gazing straight at me, through me. This is so raw, so shockingly intimate. We face each other wide open, vulnerable, and totally stunned.

Her eyes are blue and bottomless, her irises smooth, clear as ice, very peaceful on the surface. But I see that within they hold a fire that I must pass through to either own or perish by some day, no matter what it will cost me. As if she read my thoughts, she echoes my growing desire to further connect with her, and raises her left hand to simply rest it over my hammering heart. We sit like this, in the near dark, completely still, for the full 9 minutes of the song. Never breaking our eye contact or our touch.

If I moved forward just the few inches separating us I could easily kiss her now. While my music is playing, she would meet me half-way. I see it in her eyes. But I don't. The intensity of our connection frightens me because it is so familiar and so right. I am not ready to feel this way about anyone.

The music ends much too soon. She shakes her head and breaks the spell, and gently removes my headphones from her ears. Then she touches my fingers still resting on her cheeks, and holds on while slowly lowering them down from her face. I realize that I forgot to inhale. Shaky breath, then another one. She is affected as well, breathing much too fast. At last she smiles at me with a warm but puzzled, even shy look. We are both surprised and shaken by what happened between us.

She coughs lightly to clear her throat and quickly moves away from me. Her voice is low and a little breathless when she speaks again, as if still trying to wake from an unexpectedly vivid, intimate dream.

"Your music. Thank you. For letting me hear it become." She is quiet for a while, then continues, lost in thought: "It is weird, but you somehow captured that desperate feeling of a key scene in _Crash Course_ ... I haven't even gotten there yet myself. It really matches the emotional palette of Hariku's story. Lights and shadows; conflict and passion; and the most intimate release through unbearable pain. Who knows, maybe he'd want to use it in his show? I can just feel it. Now I know what to search for to make my _Crash Course_ interpretation work as well as you did yours."

I smile back at her, encouraging her to keep her talking. Carelessly I pick up on her words. "You mean sexual release through unbearable pain? Like what - banging each other to death? Is that it?"

This was the wrong thing to say. I realize it as soon as I hear my words spoken out loud. Her most private artwork showing the unbearable pain of Her own Coming and Falling Apart. Have I just exposed my unforgivable invasion of her sketchbook? I must have, as she meets me head-on with an almost violent change in her presence. Cornered, she snaps back, completely aware that she ignored her initial instincts and revealed too much of herself, leading a total stranger, and now a loathed trespasser into her most intimate inner space; that for a while she even joined him there. To make things worse, her unspoken suspicions are justified. So is my undeniable guilt. Something grabs her within, turns off the light in her face and drops a panic wall between us.

Her tone is cold, harsh. "If that's what you think, than you have no clue what I mean. I should have known, you are just like all the others." She is now pushing me away hard and fast. Our moment has passed.

She turns abruptly away in a final cut to our conversation. Damn. Is she as afraid as me to let anyone in? Why? She joined me willingly when we faced each other and now she is determined to push me back out. Despite all of my own fears I want to keep going but she isn't. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? WHY DO I ALWAYS FUCK UP??

Suddenly I am scared out of my wits: Is she the one I want, and all that I had been running from in myself all these years?


	6. Leave me Be

**HELLO! This chapter is reposted – reedited and cleaned. I hope you enjoy it! **

**Mazuzu**

We are both still angry when our steward brings napkins to set up dinner, then our food and wine. I ask for more alcohol to numb the deep disappointment now flooding all over me. She just ignores the food, me, him, and everything else around her. To make things worse, I get slammed with unwanted attention from what looks like every female on board. Shit. I realize I brought it on myself. Our musical interlude must not have gone unnoticed. Some airborne tongues already started to wag. Was it that horrid check-in stewardess who spread the news aboard?

Sam is increasingly becoming fidgety, clearly uncomfortable, turning her face away, each time any strayed crew member or passenger comes by to check out my latest "love interest" and get a headstart on tomorrow's tabloid headlines. I keep trying to catch Sam's eye to reassure her that I hate the attention as much as she does, and it means nothing to me. I wish I could ease her discomfort. But she shuts me out completely. I don't know where to go from here, and she is clearly not willing to help.

We are losing the precious time we had left together. Finally I speak up to break our standoff.

"Sam, why are you shutting me out? I am sorry for what I said… Please, can we talk it over? We have nothing better to do here now, really…? Don't you want to see where this can take us? I know I fucked up, but I want to, I… I have to know you. Are you always so unfriendly to everyone that tries to reach out to you?" I stop hesitantly. My heart is racing, afraid to acknowledge what I already sense coming.

"Am I unfriendly?" she finally turns towards me, genuinely surprised. She hesitates, then reconsiders. "Uh.. I… Yes. You are right. I am. Unfriendly. But only to you." She continues, slowly, measuring each word: "You .. want…to… know… why?"

Silently I nod my head. She looks at me, no .. through me again, her defensive armor back in place.

"Why? Because you pushed in and assumed a level of familiarity, even intimacy with me you had no right to, especially given that you are a magnet for EVERYONE'S attention that I want NOTHING to do with…You are a VERY public person, and so by proxy is everyone close to you. Your friends, and especially any women around you have no choice; once in your spotlight they are fair game; new meat in a ruthless feeding frenzy. And besides, don't you have enough fan girls for your insatable need for validation? You don't need me, and I for sure don't need you because you are crude and cocky. I won't be anyone's trophy. I despise crowds and unwanted attention and refuse to give away my privacy. So you see – there is no point to "talking it over" any more, is there?"

She stops abruptly, but her argument is clear. She knows herself. I have nothing to offer that she wants or needs. There is nothing I can say back to her. Silent, she looks away from me before I hear her speak up again, softer this time: "Besides … I am not any great company for you: Too preoccupied with what's in my head, too serious to party and too direct for small talk. And much too private to spill my soul to anyone. I have nothing to give you. Please leave me be." Beneath her armor, she is affected, and hurt, just like me.

So … she doesn't know about me seeing her sketchbook. It is just my celebrity luggage and my crude mouth. Shit. I shake my head, reeling from her rejection. Damn! And the celeb circus is not even my fault. Short of a new face, job and ID, there is nothing I can do about it. Feeling her slipping away from me, I am suddenly desperate, aware that she is more … we are meant … I can't give her up ,,, and I look back at her, pleading my case: "Sam, I can't help who I am. I am so sorry I was rude and assumed what I had no right to. And I hate the attention as much as you do. More – I have to live with it. But I can't help wanting to know you – not after connecting with you. You could have said no and tuned me out, before we did. I can't help that we did. Please … give me another chance." I am trying to hold on to her but she wants nothing more to do with me. Damn.

She is quiet for a long moment while I am holding my breath, my head now spinning. Her eyes meet mine; her troubled gaze shows that she feels my pain, and that she doesn't want to make me miserable but her rejection hurts more than I am willing to admit. I see that she won't give in and enter my territory. She is strong, stubborn and very clear of what is right for her. I suddenly know that she is who I want, have been looking for. And she is not willing to come my way. I cannot have her.

Turning her face towards me she speaks again, softly, her eyes asking me to believe her : "Robert, I … I really don't mean to hurt you. Please believe me. I just can't even come close to your celebrity cage, your industry's fickle fortunes, and your total lack of privacy. I want nothing with your lifestyle. Without even trying, I already know more about you than you could ever know about me. You could have been just a charming neighbor on a long flight, but … " she is almost whispering now, looking away from me … " we both know that … well… somehow …you are more than that. Can't you see,,, that… we… you and I .. that with our hunger, if we ever came together … we could … no .. we would go into a tail spin that neither of us could stop until we were completely consumed ? … You know this … I saw it in your eyes. And … You saw it in mine. That's why continuing this conversation is the beginning of our end. I don't want to even look in that direction. I just don't."

"Why?" This is all I can manage without my voice breaking up.

"Because. I have been there before. And got broken into million pieces. When they were reassembled, the most important one was missing. It still hurts. Just leave it at that." She is quiet now, her pale face turned away. I have to let her go. It isn't meant to be.

"Ok. If that's what you want" My voice is choked, flat. "I am sorry."

"Me too." She is not looking at me. but I keep talking. "Sam, I… I still would not have it any different. I mean not meeting you. Despite this dead end." To let go I need to see her eyes again.

"Me neither." This time she looks on as if trying to remember my face. but maybe I am just projecting what I want her to do. Then she feels distant again, her walls back up, her gaze moving through me with a hollow, blank expression of a stranger.

We are silent for the rest of the flight. She is sitting quietly, completely avoiding looking my way. After a while she rolls over to face the window and goes to sleep. I try to still my thoughts, and erase the visions of her face - in her art, resting next to my shoulder, looking into my soul while listening to my music, But it does not work so I try to bury myself in my music again. Then it is all over. Time to land.

Just before our arrival I must have finally dozed off. Our steward is shaking me awake, asking for my laptop & keyboard to be stowed away for touchdown. Sam is still asleep, though it looks like she is all packed up, with edge of her sculpture box sticking out of the bag on the floor. I see _Crash Course_ left at the armrest and,flash back to my attempt to prove our shared Hariku's connection. Seems like so long ago. Without further thought I grab the book, tuck it into my shoulder bag and shove under the seat.

We are almost at LAX. I am not ready to let her go, but there is nothing to hold on to. I wish I could ask for her phone number, but what's the point? Why set myself up for another rejection? She made it very clear. Damn it. Why do I have to be plastered all over, public property of all the oversexed women across the world, to be shut out by the only girl I want to go after?

Sam's intensity, in her work, in her knowing herself - attracts me like no one else I ever came across. Her ability to pull perfect form out of nothing, to shape and mold it, and then to destroy it in one punch shows her vision, strength, and clarity of purpose. She is mad enough to let all go and start from scratch if it does not match her goal. In a daydream daze I see her her hips and breast rocking, and wish for her voice to be calling out my name while holding me tight inside her. Yet there is nothing I can do to make it real. Damn it. Why her? Why not with me?

Finally, we land and taxi to the gate, getting ready to disembark. Sam and I have not looked at each other since the Rockies. At the arrival gate she gets up and pulls her bag onto the seat. Standing over me, she seems anxious to leave. I look up trying to see her eyes the last time, feeling defeated knowing that there is nothing I can say to change her mind. And then she surprises me again.

She looks at me and her face opens up. With a smile, she holds her hand out to me. Her gentle touch sends a shock up my arm. I hold her hand like I don't ever want to let her go. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, her words meant just for the two of us.

"Thank you, Robert. For your most intense music and our painfully honest conversation. And…for letting it .. letting me … go. Please believe that I won't ever forget meeting the world's beloved lady-killer" She winks, but in her eyes there is no irony or fun. Only a sadness that this is who we are. Stuck in our separate, incompatible realities. I reach out and take her hand.

"Sam, I will give away my fame for a chance with you." I blurt out. It sounds so lame.

She gently squeezes my hand. "Don't kid yourself. You can't just walk away from it until they all decide to latch onto someone else. We are not meant to be. Enjoy while it lasts, you have earned it. My hang-ups are not worth anyone giving up their spotlight. Just don't let your head get too big. If it does, feel free to use my shrunken version as your emergency backup."

She winks at me again, then bends down fast and kisses my mouth. I did not expect it at all. Her lips are hard and hungry. I inhale her breath and briefly feel her tongue on my teeth. She tastes sweet. Fresh. Delicious. Her smell washes over me. I can't help but look down her blouse as she leans towards me. Her bare breasts are as smooth and as shapely as I imagined. Even better. Milky mouthfuls with hard cherry nipples. Damn. Damn. Damn. I want her.

She abruptly stops our kiss, grabs her bag and walks away fast pushing past the other passengers, not looking back. I want to run after her and once more try to change her mind. To return her kiss with all of myself permanently attached to it. But the bleached blond stewardess blocks my way just after Sam leaves looking very disappointed to have missed the sensational shot that could have earned her retirement pension. She did not see it coming and did not have her camera ready. And I am grateful that Sam is already out of her instamatic reach.

The blonde shoves a _Killing Me Softly_ copy into my hands. "Could you please sign it for me? My name is Sissy. That's with an S and then a double S. "

Damn.

Damn!

Damn.

She is gone.

Damn.

I walk to the luggage carousel. She is nowhere to be found. I search through faces staring back at me in exulted adoration. Bunch of paparazzi appear out of nowhere. Couple of tween girls with cell phones ask for a candid photo for their facebook. All I want is to get away, but there is no one to follow, so I give in and go through the familiar motions: sign the books, smile, get flash-blinded, get grabbed again, smile, snapshot. And again. And again. She got it right. Being a celeb is largely a pain in the ass.

My driver meets me with the luggage and helps me shake the girls off. The paparazzi follow us to the curb. Thankfully Serj is used to it and good at losing them. I get in and close the door, grateful to be behind a one-way tinted window. We pull away from the curb into the late night traffic leaving the airport.

I see Her one last time just past the group of the most stubborn paparazzi trying to chase us down. A very tall and well dressed, young black guy is holding her tight from behind, his large hands on her waist almost touching her breasts, his chest and hips pressed into her back. He is kissing her neck, oblivious to all else. She is standing still, looking away from him, her expression detached, as if searching for something.

She must have guessed that the camera crowd dotted with teenagers and their moms going by her is chasing me in my limo, and that I see her making out with her man. She looks at my rolled up, darkened window passing by for a brief second, then looks away. So do I. I want to be the one holding her. And there is no chance that I ever will.

Damn.

••••••••••••••

**I can't even imagine what it must be like to have no privacy. More new chapters coming soon! Pleasy stay with me, and please review **


	7. Sleepwalking

***

The next two weeks go by in a blur.

Script readings, production meetings, costume fittings, more publicity events. I am too busy to think or give myself time to do anything but the movie prep. Carmella is calling me again, to go out and party then spend the night with her. It used to fun, but not as much anymore. Her love games with both of us, her steady boyfriend and me, are a convenient love triangle for her and daily fodder for rags. I still like her a lot, but not being played by her. Sex with her has always been great fun – she is stunning, funny and really nice, but I am not in love with her. I cannot get my airborne Sam out of my head. Is it just because she was not available nor willing, or was there more to it?

I had not looked at my music or at the _Crash Course_ until over two or three weeks after my return, on a first night without an event or a party. I need time out. I also hope that at last I am ready to face Hariku's script, which will make me think of Her. The memory of our encounter is starting to fade a little, hurting less. Maybe it was all a dream I didn't want to shake off?

The travel bag is still in the corner of my bedroom where I threw it the night we landed, now buried deep under a mountain of dirty laundry. I have to dig deep down to find it. My laptop, keyboard, books. Box with her sculpture. I am not yet ready to open it.

And two copies of the Hariku's script. Mine AND Hers.

Damn. How did that happen????

I took her copy with me. What an ass. She must have been worried? Pissed off? Frantic? How did I do it? Did I take her book on purpose and can't even admit it??? How can I return it to her – I have no idea where she lives, or even what is her full – real? Name? Damn.

I look through her notebook. This time without the fear of her catching me, I am still cornered by an overwhelming awareness of being a dirty peeping Tom, a stalker sneaking into her most intimate visions. Now looking more carefully I can see that her book was handled much more than mine and is worn out with some faint paint fingerprints on the spine of hers. How could I have not seen it then?

I wanted it all along. I stole a piece of her away, and I know it. My subconscious planned this switch. What a hypocrite.

The pages at the beginning of the script are familiar sketches of her sets – angular, jagged on some. Flowing and smooth on others. Abstract. Then realistic. Progression from abstract to realistic, then back to abstract. She has recorded the trails of her imagination on these thin sheets– this is her shorthand, her fingerprints, and her personal brain flow. Turning the pages I see that Hariku's words are sometimes reflected in the drawings. In others, they become punctuation marks for the images. Yet on others, the drawing either obscures or molds with the text. Some are only on margins: her little letter creatures, her lines, her forms, her traces, and her phrases. I smell the paper, the spine and the cover. Linseed. Patchouli. Pomegranate. Lavender and lemon. Clay. Sweat. Rust. Fire.

Hell of a daring scent palette for a woman.

I turn the written pages towards the end, past the untouched blank ones waiting for her hand to spin her art web on their translucent surface. I come again face to face with her passion diary. More details. His hands on her torso. Lines of henna on her hip. Strong black man's fingers holding her thigh, hard, edge of her foot digging into his chest, pressed flesh. Scratch marks on her shoulder. Her hair cascading down, his torso taking her from the back, riding, her hair covering her face. His arms holding her shoulders down. Only part of his face visible, mouth open in what must have been not so silent scream. Her resting next to him, a small cameo, only her face clear, his hidden under her henna hand. Turning page I again come to that most intimate piece, her face in the moment of ecstatic pain. Eyes half closed, mouth open and gasping, cheeks flushed, body and hands taut, at the tipping edge of melting and crushing apart. She is all there, and yet so unreachable. And then that last piece, of her body being ripped apart into pieces, with the ravens pulling and a black man's hand. That is what she used in that piece she sculpted on the plane. He was a part of her agony. Yet someone like him held her tender at the airport. Why? Is her pain there real, or is it art, only?

I get on the web trying to find any clues about her. The name she gave me was Sam. Samantha. Try every possible way to find it. Stage designers. Illustrators. Artists. Dead end. No information available. Found sculptures that looked like she could have made them, but name of the artist – always anonymous. No gallery, just an e-mail address to an agent PO box, but with no name. I send an e-mail anyway. Nothing comes back. No receipt, no confirmation, no answer. Nothing.

I think of calling Hariku directly, but if I do, I will betray her by letting him know that she lost his book. I could not risk compromising Hariku's trust in her by making such a selfish loser move.

Who is she? I am obsessed with this woman. Does she hate me for taking her book with me? Does she know I did it? And that it was a mistake, well, sort of?

I call the airlines and try to work my charm with the stewardess at the phone. Then at the front counter. I drive to JFK in person to get info from anyone willing. They are all eager to help for sure, but nothing comes up. The ticket for my seat neighbor was purchased in the name of a man, one Sam Lepard; same name as the famous American playwright. Only an e-mail and agency address that was the dead end I already checked out. I found Lepard's real literary agent in New York, but they blow me off, saying this is one of many enquiries for someone using a stolen identity. No sign of my Sam, the female version of our frequent traveler. No way to reach her.

My rehearsals are moving forward, but my head is not in it. I am distracted all the time. I know that the only way to get over her is to dive into my work. So I do it, the best I can to numb some of my obsession. The only luxury – or escape I leave to myself is to look at her book every night before going to sleep. I stopped seeing Carmella – what is the use of pretending. I am not interested in her that way anymore. And besides, Tony gave her an ultimatum to pick one of us. I don't not want her to choose me and lose us both, so I break it off.

Every night late after rehearsal I.. I just work myself to her ecstasy image in the book. I remember the look of her breasts under the silk chemise she wore, and the touch of her skin when I held her face. I smell her scent from the book, and come violently, feeling hungry for her, empty and all broken up inside. So that's how it feels to be in love. Shit, I met my soul mate, and I let her go. She did not want my celebrity cage. Shit.

Her book has become part of me, as I carry it hidden on my body everywhere. Soft leather next to my skin feels as if she is always with me. When alone, I look through for some clues, memorizing every line, color and word in it.

It takes me another three weeks to accidentally find what I am looking for.

***

I am back in LA for final make-up test. Thursday at 4 am. My dressing room is very quiet; I got in before anyone else. I should be able to hear the rest coming in, with enough time to put her diary away. My sense of time is gone in my guilty pleasure of looking at her book again. Checking her set sketches in the first part of the story. The transition between the type and drawing is very subtle, and for the first time I notice how the words lock in with the images, like a spider puzzle of words weaving together the letters, echoes, shadows, not just in form, but also in content. I did not see it before. Fully engrossed in the next page I don't notice the arrival of Brenda, our make-up artist until she is standing quietly behind me. Looking over my shoulder, she starts reading the notes that were not meant for anyone but the artist herself.

"Wow – this is really cool – what is it??? " she startles me so badly that I drop the book on the floor ready to jump out of my skin. Swinging down rapidly to pick it up, I see a white edge of a small business card sticking out from behind the leather cover. It must have been slipped into the cover fold, hidden all the time right in front of me.

Holding my breath I lift the card. Only a single phrase: "Sam I Am, Inc." with some Japanese characters next to it – and a handwritten phone number. In New York. That's where we ended our journey. Could it be her number? Did I finally found her trail?

I turn around to face Brenda. "Hi Brenda! This – oh … it's just a script draft loaned to me by an artist friend. Confidential. Will have to ask him if I can show it around. Hope you understand. You will be the first one to know, I promise. And how was last night, any great parties?" while she stands there, I put the book back under my shirt, and turn to face the mirror. She looks confused. There is something odd happening here and she knows it. But – with the rest of the cast pouring in and our first set up starting in less than 2 hours, she has no time for more questions. We both know she saw my face go white as a ghost, but she lets it go. I am grateful.

My heart hammers as if I just run a marathon.

I got her number.

Will she be willing to even see me again?

I can give the book back to her.

In New York.

It has been already 6 weeks.

I need to go there tonight.

How soon can I leave?


	8. An Undeserved Break

***

This is our longest shooting day. Will it ever end?

I finally take a taxi home. With the rest of crew and cast leaving for a Catalina Island party this weekend I am free to go my way. We have a week off while the producers figure out all the final prep in Ronda, Spain. I have 7 days to find Her and change Her mind about us. 168 hours.

Her phone rings many times before she picks up. "Hello?" I recognize her voice immediately. It sounds alert, even though it must be about 3 a.m. New York time. When does she sleep? Does she like to sleep in? What is she doing tonight so awake? Is she alone or with Daniel?

"Hello?" She repeats. I try to cough, unable to make my suddenly dry throat make a coherent sound. "Hello?" She sounds more impatient this time. "Who is this? What do you want? Speak up or bug off."

"Ah, Sam… Ah – Hi… Aah… this is Robert. Rob. Toby. That actor from your LA flight several weeks ago that you didn't want to ever see again. I am sorry to bother you where you so clearly did not want to be bothered by me, but… "

I stop, waiting for her to say something, anything other than to hang up on me. Feeling like a sixth grader making a prank call. She is silent for a long time. I hear her breathing a little faster when she recognizes my voice, or maybe I just imagine it. Finally her hesitant voice comes on again. "Yes…? What is it? What do you want? And how did you find me?"

" Ah… I am really sorry to bother you, but I don't really want anything from you, but it just happens that I have something of yours that I have taken by mistake and I would like to return it… " – I babble on scared that she will cut me off. "I have it and I thought that you would really miss it, but I … but it took me until now to find you, I am really sorry that I took it, but it was a real honest mistake, I would like to bring it to you personally. I am very sorry for the inconvenience. Sorry."

"It's ok." She chuckles. That's better. "You sound like you think that I will bite your head off, although I hear that is what you are famous for…What is it? What do you have of mine? I already gave you your shrunken head, what else could you have taken from me?"

"Well, did you miss anything else after the flight?' I ask and hold my breath. My heart rattles in my chest. Want to hear her clearly and keep her talking to me even when she will get angry. Her fury is coming.

Long silence. Much longer than the last time. Hyperventilating, I am sure that any moment she will hang up on me. Her _Crash Course_ diary is too intimate to be shared with anyone. By calling her now, several weeks since we met, I am confirming that I have seen all of it, taking my time to repeatedly trespass into her most private thoughts. Will she cut her losses and run, or will she give me a chance and face her full own exposure, whatever the consequences?? Is she willing to be backed into that corner by me again? Am I worthy for her to even consider this seriously?

"Sam –are you still there?" I croak out. "Do you know what I want to give back to you, and to beg for your forgiveness."?

Still no answer. Dead silence. Did she hang up on me after all?

"Sam? Please…???"

"Rrroberrrrt. That name fits you so well." Sarcasm. Anger. Disdain. I can take it. "Robert the Robber. The Ripper. The Rape-er" Her curt staccato words cut me deep. Then she pauses again. For what seems like eternity. " You TOOK my Hariku's script. MY sketchbook. My PRIVATE sketchbook. That's it, isn't it? And now that you pilfered all you wanted, fantasized about me, fucked me in your dreams every which way on your filthy bed, used me … now you want to give it back and replace it with the real thing because … well, because you want it ALL and paper just can't fuck you back? Why do you even bother? You already took a part of me that you cannot ever return no matter how hard you try. It wasn't up for grabs, and you stole and defiled it. There is nothing for us to talk about."

She is furious; cold and hard as ice, and as clear in her vision of me. Click. Her line goes dead.

I dial again, my hands shaking. It rings forever, apparently no answering machine on her end. I redial again and again. Finally she picks it up. Before she can get out a single word, I start talking. "Sam, wait. Please. PLEASE. Do not hang up on me." I am begging. "Please hear me out. Only 5 minutes of your time. That's all I want. Then I will vanish if you still want me to go. Please." I hear her breath, nothing else, so I dive in.

"Sam, I know I broke your trust, and I don't deserve any breaks from you. But you didn't even give me a chance… You… you and your art have touched me in ways I had no idea I could be touched. I never felt like this before. You have created a new universe of…of feelings… of ideas… of images… of you that I cannot, I don't want to leave. It has dared me to feel far beyond all I ever dared. It made me want you unlike … unlike anything I ever wanted in my life. To get to know you, to give and share with you, to take and be taken by you… it has shown me that I could be filled up with someone else beyond myself, and then I… we… we ... we can get together through that ultimate pain of total surrender to each other. It has made me crave and fight for my privacy even more so I can have a chance with you, any chance at all … and … please – please let me redeem myself?" The line is live. She is still listening.

"I will find a way to give you all the space and privacy you want, but you have to give me a chance. I have to see you. Please?" I know I sound desperate. But it still doesn't work.

"I want you to immediately send it back to me. I don't ever want to see you again." No opening. Nothing. A stonewall. I am not going to back down. I have nothing more to lose.

"No." I dig in my heels. "I can only deliver it to you in person. Do you want to risk someone else - another interloper … to see all of you bare, again?" Will this work?

She sneers. "Takes one sleazy rotten bastard to bring up another one… " Then she falls silent. But I sense that something has changed. Maybe she finally heard my desperation. All I need is a small opening from her.

Surprising me yet again her tone at first sounds much kinder. "Sorry. I did not mean it so harshly. Do you really want me to believe that … That you took it completely by mistake because you thought it was yours? And that you wouldn't take it if it wasn't Hariku's work we accidentally had in common? Yes?"

She interrupts herself, with a new thought that hardens her voice back: "Or -- are you trying to tell me that if I left you ANY opening when we met you would not be so desperate to find me that you wouldn't have to stoop down to stealing my most intimate thoughts and keep violating me with your every turn of my pages? SO because I pushed you away you want me to believe that this is my fault too??? How dare you???"

My little ray of hope broke through to be blown out again. I have to keep fighting for her.

"No Sam. Please listen to me. It was an honest mistake. Definitely not your fault that I am crazy about you, I never meant to imply anything like it. I let you down and I am really sorry."

"As for the rest: You must believe I never want to hurt you, and I hate myself for doing it. After finding you I just couldn't walk away. Hariku made only 5 copies of his manuscript. We got 2 of them – and we met – among all the millions of people between here and Japan. Once I opened your copy and saw your work in it, I just could not stop, and went where I had no right to go. I am so sorry. I was wrong. But I know we are meant to be. And ultimately this book brought us back again. It helped me find you."

"Rob, that's bull. Don't push it. We met by accident. Just a random accident. That's all."

We are both silent, waiting for the next move. I am sure she will hang up any second. Instead, she surprises me again by asking: " So, how DID you find me, anyway?"

"Your "Sam I Am" card was hidden under the cover. I searched for your everywhere for weeks. With no name I struck out till the card slipped out when I accidentally dropped it yesterday."

A long pause. Then she asks again: "The card was for Hariku. I thought I lost it. How did you take it from me, anyway?" I exhaled. We are still talking. Good.

"You were asleep before landing at LAX, and all your stuff looked like it was put away. The book was on our armrest. I assumed it was my copy. So I took it. I didn't find it until I finally unpacked my suitcase three weeks later." She is listening, calmer now, seems to accept my story. Sighing and then laughing quietly, she surprises me again. "Only 3 weeks to unpack your laptop and keyboards, and do the laundry?! Is it your personal record? You got some pretty bad rap about your housekeeping habits. Sounds about right!"

I don't dare to believe it. She is joking with me. Is she giving me another chance?

"Well, true to my bad boy reputation, my domestic training belongs straight in a barn, not that I ever lived in one. Sorry. Do you mind?"

She chuckles. Obviously finds it funny.

"Whatever. Doesn't matter. Guess I am glad you found it and not some horny hick flying to Orlando that would publish my work, and my… well, my other ... ah.. work… all over the web. I was not ready to see my face coming hard on Flicker. Nor was I ready to tell Hariku that I lost his script. He is coming over tomorrow evening; I could not hold him off any longer. "

She is serious now: "Guess I – I owe you for finding me so at least I don't have to break Hariku's heart and tell him I lost his work. Thanks…" She sounds sincere. We are talking again.

"So now, when can I come over?" I am ready to jump across the next abyss to get to her.

"Rob – I … " She hesitates. "..I - That's more than I can handle at the moment. I don't know if I can see you at all now. Please, can you just send it out, insured, FedEx?"

"Sam…give me a chance. I won't do anything that you don't want me to… please?"

"Where are you now – LA?" her voice comes through after a long pause.

"I will be at JFK tomorrow morning if you will see me."

She groans. "You are crazy – how about your work, whatever else you do there in LA?"

"How about it?" I answer. "We have a week long break. I can fly out tonight and be there by 7 am tomorrow morning. Will you see me so we can start again? Pretty please?"

"Robert, stop begging. Makes me feel like a much more heartless and wicked witch than I already am. You don't know what you are getting into. But …you do whatever you want. Even come here wasting your time and money that could be much better used for a nobler cause than me".

"Sam – you are my cause. Ok. I am there tomorrow morning. A sketchbook for you and donation for a charity. How much? Don't know what else to do with all my money. Where do you live, anyway?"

I am going to see her soon.

"Carnegie Hall. I live at the Carnegie Hall."

"Where?" I am confused. "Sam, don't mess with me. Where do I find you?"

I just want to get going. No more delays. No games.

"Rob, I really live at the Carnegie Hall. My live-in studio loft is in Carnegie Hall in their public accommodations – above the concert halls, classrooms and offices. The upper floors are privately rented. There are about 40 of us in studios here; best kept secret in Manhattan. The loft has been in my family for the last 100 years. It holds a lot of juicy chunks of history – if these walls could only talk." She is laughing now. "Rob, this is funny; you are one more hot celebrity volunteering to come up to the Carnegie Hall Infamous Art Lovin' Pad! Cute."

"You serious?" I ask, still skeptical that she is pulling my leg. "THE Carnegie Hall?"

"Yes Rob, I am serious. THE Carnegie Hall, Studio 13. Manhattan, NY. DO NOT DARE to breath either my name or my address at this studio complex to anyone, or I swear that I will kill you and hide your body in a bronze cast for our newest flash-in-the-pan movie star, gone much too soon…. Don't care if I am damned to rot away after that. I want my privacy intact, and you will not dare to destroy it or else. Understand?" She is serious. I get it loud and clear.

"Keep the paparazzi away from you, even if you have to dress as a yeti or Santa so that a beard covers your much overexposed jaw line". She is making fun of me again. No celeb jaw jabs can bring me down now. I am going to see her. Tomorrow morning. Yes!

I love hearing her voice. She is laughing, probably thinking of me as a yeti. I don't dare to believe that I would see her so soon.

"Rob – you sure you want to come? This is crazy. Insured FedEx will do."

"See you tomorrow around 7 am." Just have to get to the airport. Try to breath normally again. Release the fear. I will see her. Tomorrow.

"Fly well. Good night." She is quiet. Then softly: "Thanks. See you tomorrow."

She hangs up. I sit for a long while, trying to calm my frantic heart down. So that's what it feels like to fall head over heels. Out of control. Shaky and solid at once. I am in love. How is that possible? I open the notebook to her image, gently trace over her ecstasy drawing fine lines. I imagine what her skin might…will feel like under my fingertips. Better than paper, she got that right. If she lets me touch it.

Not If.

When.


	9. 9 Waiting to Exhale

***

Travel to LAX, flight to JFK and ride to Manhattan blur into one fluid endless frame; I can't see the details around me, just the final destination. I am racing through a gauntlet of cameras. Paparazzi, flight attendants, gawking passengers. Women all over wanting a piece of me, touching me. I want to be away, invisible. In need of a cover to come to her without any shadows, no uninvited guests, no trespassers. Alone. At a JFK bathroom handicap stall I put on a face piece with a gray beard, a hat, and a big lumpy coat. Change shoes and jeans. As I stoop down I become an old man. Don't want to overdo it, just enough to be believable. I adjust my gait and walk out of the johns 4 decades older, without any of my tween and shutterbug cling-ons noticing me. I put my duffle bag into another bag to hide its well-know logo. Take a leak then come out and look in the mirror. Guy next to me glances over indifferently and moves on. Great. I look real enough to pass through unnoticed.

Walking out a Salvation Army officer offers to help me carry my bag. Between my cane and a slight limp I am a convincing enough old man, so he walks with me all the way to the taxis. The shutterbugs stuck at the johns' entry miss me parading right past them, still waiting to pounce at their Hollywood celeb prey taking a human water break. None of them even glances my way as we pass by. Great!

***

Carnegie Hall – an easy address to give to a Manhattan cabbie. New York is waking up – my favorite time of the day. Already a lot of traffic, but not too bad. It is nice to be hidden; the taxi driver is not interested in me at all, instead listening to some Moroccan music station. I sit back and look out the window, wondering what awaits me on the other end. Will I be able to find a place where both of us can connect? Move forward with, and towards something with her? I am only 22 – am I ready for this woman? Can I make room in my life for us? And what about all that madness and intensity that she brings with her?

I pull her book out. The pages feel like old friends by now. Her creative, rational flow is mixed with her untamed passion. It is so powerful, and so volatile. I shudder remembering the overwhelming hunger for her, when I came night after night, looking into her eyes holding me hostage from her painted page. I look for her dreams among the shapes and forms from her imagination; new surprises each time I see them. Makes me wonder where does she get such ideas? How can she generate them from within? Who is she, really? What is this secret spring of creativity in her? Is it anything like my own that spawns the characters and songs I bring to life?

We pull up to the back entrance to the Carnegie Hall, barely noticeable except for a bunch of small tags with plain numbers – the mysterious studios. The best kept secret in Manhattan. And she is a part of it.

I pay the cabbie and step out to ring the bell. My cane clicks on the pavement. I prop it against the wall. A hobo can find it and use it. I am done with it.

Number 13. Her studio. I press once, then again. Nothing. Then again. 6:35 am. We landed early. Cabbie drove fast. Is she still in bed?

On the third ring, her sleepy voice asks: "Yes?"

"Good morning. I have a personal package delivery for Studio 13. May I come in?"

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand… the seconds seem to drag forever. Then her voice, much more awake: "Oh ... you're here". She hesitates briefly, her breath coming faster: "Come up 8 flights of stairs to the 4th floor, last door on the end of a long hallway. Number 13."

And then a sweet sound of her buzzer letting me in. Music to my ears.

***

I push the heavy door and walk in, stopping at the bottom of a steep dark staircase. Door closes behind me cutting short the street noise. Silence. Only my heavy breathing. I am scared and excited enough to jump out of my skin.

First flight, second, then 6 more, 2 per floor. Run the steps two at a time. Get hot on the way. Too much clothes.

Landing of the 4th floor – dark. Long corridor, with a long skylight overhead. When the sun shines it must be a bright space. At this point – dark and cool, as if waiting for someone, holding its breath. Not wanting to break the night's silence.

As I walk down the hallway, a door at the far end slowly opens. Warm yellow light spills into the cold corridor. It makes me think of the yellow brick road, with Her, my own personal witch standing at the end of it. It all suddenly seems quite funny. I am going to my own Oz, trying to figure out what the Good Witch will have me do to pay for my very bad deeds. And trying to figure out if she is a Really Good Witch, or a Really Really Bad One. And which one is going to be more fun. I am actually looking forward to whatever she has come up with. What sweet tortures has she thought up just for me...

Shut up Rob, you don't want to screw it up again by pushing too hard, too fast. Shut up and keep walking.


	10. Delivery

***

She stands backlit in her doorway. An exotic silhouette. Harem pants, translucent enough to outline her hips, thighs, all of her slender long legs. A shimmering silk top drops off one shoulder, softly draped over her breasts, barely covers her flat belly. Hair tied into her loose blond braid. A couple of brushes stuck in to hold it up. Barefoot. Just standing there waiting for her delivery. Or is it her deliverance?

I know she finally sees me coming when she startles slightly, backing a little into her open door. A huge, hulking dark shape of an old man is approaching her slowly, stooped, with a large overcoat, dragging his left leg. Looks like I am not quite what she expected. Soft, old felt hat hides my face; even bending down I probably still am much taller than she would have remembered. Besides, she never saw me standing, so she doesn't know my real height. Movies lie. And now I am coming after her. As I get closer, her eyes finally find mine. I look back at her face, still in the shade but now bright enough to see that she recognizes me under my disguise. Her body relaxes, but I hear her soft laughter getting louder very fast. She laughs now so hard that she has to bend down, and cover her face, laughing even harder yet… As I limp the last few yards to her door, I see tears running down her face. She is now hysterical, laughing so hard her body shakes uncontrollably, and she gasping for air. She looks like she is going to wet her sexy harem pants. And she is even hotter than I remembered. I am a goner.

"Oh Toby… You have outdone yourself, "… she chokes out between her spasms of giggles… "But I guess I should have expected…this…from you. You don't do anything half way, do you?? Ha-Ha-ha-You fooled me. Thanks for the effort. ….and….and…ha-ha-ha…no tag-a-longs behind you. Well done. You are even better than I thought." And she bursts out again.

Even so close to her giggling her heart out, I manage to keep my face straight. "Hello, Dear Sam I Am Ma'am. A great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Mr. Roberto Thelonius Enamorato, at your service."

Despite her laughter I try very hard to stay in my character, a somber old man with a deep voice and slow drawl of John Wayne. I reach for her hand and bowing down tenderly kiss her fingertips.

"It is such a pleasure to see you again, my fair lady." Her laughter is start to undo me: "I … I .. he…he.. I traveled a veeery long way with this special package for you." Working hard not to laugh, I ask: "May I come in and rest my weary bones? I will be in for only as long as you wish me to." Then I give up and just flash at her my huge happy grin I have worn on my face since hanging up with her last night.

She holds my hand and leads me inside, still chuckling out loud, letting me go to close the door behind us. We stand in a small, warmly lit hallway. Distant music plays inside, smell of linseed oil and paint and clay, mixed with fresh coffee and hot baked bread. I pull off my heavy coat and fake beard, and my old man's hat, and drop it all to the floor on top of my old-fashioned travel bag. Then I rest my back against the closed door and just look at her, softly laughing along with her for a while longer. Slowly, we both quiet down. Her eyes still sparkle, but now there is much more seriousness there. And hesitation. I can see she is holding back - afraid to reach out, to take a step that could bring me closer to her. Afraid or unwilling? I sense not fear but indecision. I haven't convinced her all the way yet. I will, and it will be worth it.

We keep standing facing each, now silent and serious. Just looking at each other, barely breathing. Slowly I start unbuttoning my shirt. She startles, tensing up. I hold her eyes with my gaze, my fingers going steadily down my front, pulling the buttons apart and moving the fabric aside, gradually revealing her _Crash Course_ hidden beneath my clothes, next to my skin, across my heart. Without a word I reach out for her hand and bring it to rest on my bare chest above the book. Her touch is soft and tender. The henna pattern on her hand now a bit more faded. Long slender fingers are slightly trembling under mine.

We just stand and get lost in each other, tuning back into the intimate bond from my song on our flight. She moves her hand and runs it slowly down to my stomach, gently taking the book from me, her other hand closing on the cover. She brushes it softly, its worn out suede holding the heat and new to her scent of my skin. I want her to touch me again, so I can touch her back, all over. She reads my desire, and looks down at her book, flushed, breaking our connection. She isn't ready for more yet. I will not press on with her unwilling, either.

"Thank you, Mr.. Mr. Roberto Thelonius Enamorato, was it? What a great incognito you have... Please come in. You traveled a long way for me." She smiles at me then looks away, serious again. Standing quietly for a while, she looks within; her averted eyes pensive and soft. She turns back to face me, and simply says: "I forgive you. Please don't do it again. That is your one and only break you'll ever get." She means every word.

Turning around, she quietly walks ahead of me, and I follow her into her sanctuary. I am home.


	11. Welcome Game

**After a very long break, and on inspiration from abstract way and ****Azucena210 (Thank you both! ;-) –I am back with my story. Hope you will enjoy it!**

A narrow hallway opens into a sprawling, 30' foot tall open studio space, surrounded with 20' tall built in bookcases overflowing with piles of books and fantastic props. Countless paintings, and photographs cover over every inch of the few open walls. Small and large clay and wire maquettes of sculptures sit anywhere there is an open flat spot. The place is full, but not messy – there is an organic flow of color and pattern through this intricate and colorful space.

In the center stands a raised stage, set up for an artist's model. Next to it is an old, very beautiful couch, in deep blue velvet, with ornately carved arms. The far wall and ceiling are made of glass, with deconstructed, crystal chandeliers hanging below it for night illumination. It is to early and dim to see it now, but in full sunlight this place must be magic - filled with rainbows sparked of the hanging crystals. Canvases, large and small are stacked next to the raised stage. An old, wooden table, large enough to comfortably sit 10 or 12 stands in the corner of the main room flanked by a couple of small painted doors.

In the corner on the far left side there is a spiral, wrought iron staircase leading to a second floor loft, with soft pink light spilling onto a still darkened, high white walls. Quiet piano music trickles in from somewhere below us. But my attention is drawn by a black satin bra and panties, carelessly thrown across stacks of mail piled high on a small writing desk in the corner. Huh … I guess both Sam and I have similarly lax housekeeping habits.

She turns back towards me broadly sweeping her arm to point around the room. "Well….this is it. Make yourself at home." Looking directly at me she hesitates, then continues: "Rob, despite my best judgment, you are now one of a very small handful I ever allowed in here. Please respect it." I try to smile but her expression is stern as she steps closer and pokes her finger into my chest: "I am serious. If you spill any of my secrets, I will have to entrap you in a bronze cast as part of my permanent collection" She sounds like she means it, but her expression turns more playful as she goes on: "You know… This really IS a haunted place, and you won't be the first to never leave." She laughs lightly and turns away from me again. "Oh well, at least you will be in good company... "

"Like whom?" I ask intrigued, but she just shrugs her shoulders. "If you misbehave, then I will tell you. No reason to freak you out in advance."

"Fair enough" I answer with a widening grin on my face. "I've been warned. Besides, I love it here already. It will be very hard NOT to misbehave and take you up on your permanent residence offer." She is smirking at me now, so I continue: "You know… Other than spilling the beans about your hideaway, can I get that punishment for any other transgressions? Or can it be a reward for good behavior? I would love to stay here forever, but as your welcome guest..."

This time she snorts out loud: "Whoa. Not so fast. We'll see about that. You got to earn your way, but don't get your hopes up. No one succeeded yet. It is VERY hard." Yet her sparkling eyes and a coy smile in the corner of her lips show that she is playing with me. "Yesss!"

"Try me." I say. "I am pretty stubborn". And I know that I won't let her go again.

"Oh, yeah… We'll see about that " she mumbles under her breath. It is pretty apparent that neither of us wants to give an inch, but we're talking again. Well, at least until she turns around and walks out the door, chuckling to herself.

I am alone. Cool morning light barely washes the loft's skylight revealing a small roof terrace outside the glass window wall. Several scruffy pigeons peck on breadcrumbs spilled in front of the half open door. The sudden quiet after her departure is filling fast with sounds of an awakening city, dawn rhythms slowly creeping in. Garbage truck rolling by, slowly creaking boards, fast footsteps from a floor below, distant echoes of musical instruments playing scales, already in rehearsal. It is still before 7 am – but not too early to make your strings and keyboards weep…

This place is loaded with ghosts and I can't wait to dig in and find out the juicy secrets they left behind. But I will have to go slow. I have to convince Sam to trust me enough to let me explore the edges of her world. This will have to be enough for now: we are safely hidden away from the gossip-greedy world, with 160 hours to work out the starting point for our shared journey. At least I hope it will be.

"Hungry?" She comes from somewhere behind one of the shelves, on the opposite side from her exit direction. I turn around startled; I did not hear her coming. Her footsteps are completely silent. She holds a tray with a clear glass bowl filled with purple figs and orange persimmons, next to an ornate silver plate with freshly baked croissants, butter and jam. An intricately carved, sharp dagger sits on the edge of the tray… to chop up her fruit … or…Well, she looks like a harem girl ready to either serve me or to carve me up. Coming from her either one would do just fine. My stomach growls loudly. I swallow and smile at her. "Starved. Did not have anything since breakfast yesterday. I guess not even a real breakfast then either."

"Why?" She looks surprised. "Do you starve yourself to stay Hollywood-skinny out there? "

"No." I look at her. "I don't care about my weight. Just forgot to eat because I found your phone number yesterday morning, and was too wired to hold anything down. I'm ready now. Bring it on Babe…"

She raises her eyebrow and glances at me with a bemused expression. "Babe? Really? That's a new one for me. Never considered myself part of the species. Do you mean the ditzy sexpot or that talking Aussie pig?"

"I think…the sexpot without the ditzy." I say with a grin.

"Oh really…" she looks at me … seductively … and–sticks her tongue at me like a 5-year old brat! I am getting a sensory whiplash between her multiple personalities! Back to the sexy she slowly licks her full lips and blows at me a very hot Marilyn's kiss. And back to the brat she is - immediately catches it and flicks off her fingers like a piece of dirt. " You wish…" …aaand … the throaty voice of the sex vamp is back. So what can I do but just grin wider and roll my hips at her, clearly letting her know that yes, I do wish it very, VERY much.

Caught in my lustful expression she swallows hard and looks away. Ha! I got her! To keep up the game I follow with: "Ok, so … would you rather be named after the talking Aussie pig?" She huffs but her blush gets more intense as I get closer, now caressing her cheek with my whisper … and … I go in for the kill, She shivers as my lips skim slowly across her ear " You see…I really want to eat … you …all ….up."

"Oh, yeah?" she sounds breathless as I lean into her, my hands lightly skimming across her waist. "Oh, yeah" I whisper back…"I'd like you with a baked apple stuffed into your sweet snout." Aaand…I jump back fast, barely dodging a damp paint rag she grabs off the table and snaps at me. She comes close. Judging by the sharp whipping sound, it would have definitely left a bruise. I will have to watch my back.

She is back in control, composed again. "Here is your breakfast. If you want, you can take a quick shower before you have the food - no Hollywood glitter allowed here, and take a nap in my room to rest. Don't wait for me; I don't eat until later, and besides, I need to get back to work"

I am disappointed to have to eat and hang out alone, but grateful and happy to see her, to be so close. Washing off my journey's grime before food would be nice. "Great, I'd love a shower. Where do I go?" She steps lightly past me and leads me to her corner spiral staircase. "The bath is upstairs, next to my bedroom. Complete tour of the studio can wait for later. You just need to get up there and… Uh…I guess I'll better show you enough to get you settled."

I slowly follow her upstairs. As she starts climbing the narrow, steep staircase, her long legs and violin hips swing gracefully just in front of my face. What a view!

I am so close. I want to reach out and slide my hand up between her thighs. Cup her cheeks. Touch her heat. Make her tremble. But it is too early for that. Instead I just keep walking up close behind her, looking at her sinuous, slender shape through the sheer cloth, while getting too hard for my own good. But she also seems very tense. I only hope that we are too aware of each other to last apart much longer.

**Next update in a couple of weeks. Possibly lemony… still trying to decide which way to go. In the meantime - Please review and let me know what you think. Thank you for reading!**


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